Pair of Deuces
by NebulousMistress
Summary: A VERY alternate character interpretation. Can be read as an AU. Fourth in the Gillian House series. Follows the events of late-season canon.
1. All In

First, a caveat. This is still a **very** alternate character interpretation. This is fourth in a series. Fourth! Never thought I'd stick with this for so long. As always, this can be read as an AU.

This story keeps to late season 7 canon. This chapter follows the events in episode 7x18 "The Dig" and precedes the events in episode 7x21 "The Fix". Despite the writing, the Huddy, all the OOC angst of the show's canon, and the alternative-ness of this interpretation I have managed to keep this whole storyline compatible with season 7 canon. It's been a challenge. I am **not** doing this with season 8. While I might use aspects of season 8 I will **not** be keeping strictly to their canon. After all, their House is a guy!

This is a work of fanfiction. No money is being made from these pieces. If after the first three stories you're still weirded out by this concept then _why are you reading?_

This chapter rated T for themes on gender, poker metaphors, etc.

-00000-

Introspection was never her specialty. Introspection was something that could only be done properly in unfamiliar circumstances, in strip clubs, in seedy bars on the wrong edge of town. Introspection was too real unless it was periodically interrupted by a bartender or a prospective hook-up.

Gillian House was never very good at introspection. That fact might help to explain why she'd been a man for over 50 years. Either way, being bad at it didn't keep her out of the corner bar, not tonight.

It was like everyone who knew she was, well, a she were all expecting her to go through some big mental change. House snorted and took a swig of scotch. As if she'd wake up one morning and decide that from then on she was going to be a proper woman. It didn't work that way. Worse, there was no way to convince people that it didn't work that way. People just couldn't understand, couldn't comprehend what it was like…

Scotch wasn't enough tonight. If she was going to get some quality introspection going then that damned karaoke machine needed to be on and she needed something other than scotch. Scotch was just too familiar. "Dark rum, straight," House ordered when the bartender passed by. "And when are you turning that damned machine on?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow and looked around the room. The Sunday night crowd consisted of three regulars and this guy. He shrugged and figured 'why not'.

Rum in hand, House swaggered up to the karaoke machine. Someone needed to get this train wreck going. The screen wasn't working right and the microphone kept cutting out but the music was there and the words just came.

_Out of the tree of life, I just picked me a plum  
>You came along and everything started to hum<br>Still it's a real good bet, the best is yet to come_

_The best is yet to come, and won't that be fine  
>You think you've seen the sun, but you ain't seen it shine<em>

Flat words with scant meaning. There was no 'best' to things, at least not for her. Life dealt you a hand and you played your cards. She'd played hers, nearly folded so many times but she always called like a sucker. She just always needed to see what cards came up next.

_Wait till the warm-up is underway  
>Wait till out lips have met<br>Wait till you see that sunshine day  
>You ain't seen nothin' yet<em>

_The best is yet to come, and won't that be fine_  
><em>The best is yet to come, come the day that you're mine<em>

She's stuck here at that poker table called 'life', all-in with nothing but a pair of deuces in her hand. Everyone around her played their hands better, bet saner, drew better cards… They just had better hands. All of them. And she was stuck with this pair of deuces. A pair of deuces and a joker.

_Come the day that your mine  
>I'm gonna teach you to fly<br>We've only tasted the wine  
>We're gonna drain that cup dry<em>

_Wait till your charms are right, for the arms to surround_  
><em>You think you've flown before, but you ain't left the ground<em>

The joker was a new card. To expand the metaphor, the joker was Thirteen and this strange understanding she had with House. It was an unknown, something new. Something not yet quantified. House didn't want to make the mistake she made with Dominika, to make a careless bet on a long shot and have it turn out mediocre at best. She wasn't sure this was friendship; House wasn't ready to declare Thirteen another deuce and expand her hand. House wasn't good with friendships. Thus Thirteen remained a joker, an unknown. And that unknown kept House from knowing how to bet.

_Wait till you're locked in my embrace  
>Wait till I hold you near<br>Wait till you see that sunshine place  
>There ain't nothin' like it here<em>

_The best is yet to come, and won't that be fine_  
><em>The best is yet to come, come the day that you're mine<em>

No, Thirteen wasn't a deuce. She couldn't be. Wilson was her deuce, the perfect match to pair with her own inherent low value. Thirteen was an ace, she strengthened any hand.

House left the stage to the sound of silence. The bar was empty of any patron who might be moved by a heartfelt performance. The bartender mixed her a jagertee without a word.

"Empty words," House mumbled. "There is no 'best'."

"I hear ya," said the bartender. "Work or wife?"

House inwardly cringed. Both, if she were honest, and more. "Work," she said, settling on the more recent issue. "One of my employees asked me to kill her." Her reward for speaking openly was a cautious and disturbed stare. "I'm a doctor," House explained. "So's she. And she's facing a long, slow death from an incurable disease. She made me promise to euthanize her when it gets too bad."

"What did you say?" the bartender asked, caution turning to empathy.

House shrugged. "I said I would." She drained her glass.

"And you're okay with that?"

House stared at her empty glass. "I've seen the alternative. No one should live like that." She looked up to see the disturbed look on the bartender's face. "Oh, she's not asking me to kill her today. Probably not for years. Who knows, maybe in those years mercy-killing will be legalized and I won't end up in jail for it."

"And maybe in those years there'll be a cure," he said, leaving a bottle of dark rum in front of House.

"Maybe," House said, staring into red-brown liquid as she poured it into her glass. A cure was unlikely. Cures took time to go through testing, development, trials, everything. So many experimental drugs never reached the market because of some minor problem in statistically poor studies and overly cautious lawyers.

A cure…

It would be like an ace up the sleeve, a way to cheat out of the poor hand dealt by life. Thirteen had no such ace but…

House knew of one such ace. Some technician who owed her a favor was researching some protein, Compound CS-804. Supposed to rebuild muscle. Sure she could never replace the muscle torn from her leg but she could strengthen the remaining three quads, lessen her pain, maybe even dance again…

Her leg screamed at her as she got to her feet again. She ignored it. She had an ace up her sleeve. If no one caught her cheating she might finally have a hand worth playing.

-00000-

Yes, this _does_ mean House gets to sing more.

Jagertee: mixed drink made of very strong rum and black tea, served warm. Makes you feel better.

Song credit:_  
><em>

_The Best is Yet to Come_ by Frank Sinatra


	2. Ace of Hearts

This chapter follows 7x21 "The Fix". It's written Third Person Central (Wilson and Thirteen). POVs are switched with no warning other than different voice and House's gender pronoun. Think of it as a variation of Third Person Omniscient. I believe I've managed to avoid confusion but I might be overestimating myself.

House's gender pronoun still varies based on who's doing the thinking.

This chapter rated T for themes on gender, bars, etc.

-00000-

"Experimental drugs…" Wilson sat in his office, glaring at his _Vertigo_ poster. Broken glass mocked him, taunted him for being such a terrible friend, a terrible person to not notice House's mental and physical state. But how could he have known? He'd been cut off recently, House retreating into her own little world and whatever in hell was going on there. He didn't feel welcome in her world, not anymore. Somewhere something had gone wrong and now he had to watch her from the outside like everyone else.

Except maybe Thirteen. Wilson grumbled under his breath, not even realizing he was making sounds. Ever since House went to that spud gun contest with her they'd been closer. He didn't think there was anything sexual going on, no, it was worse. House _trusted_ Thirteen. That trust burned more than any sexual escapade. It wasn't long ago, not long ago at all when Wilson was the only person House trusted. Even when they were dating House didn't trust Cuddy, not really. Right?

Wilson didn't know anymore. Maybe House had trusted her; maybe House had learned trust along with babysitting and compromise. Or maybe House didn't trust anyone anymore. When had House lost her trust in him? Had she? Worse, had she ever trusted him?

Of course she'd trusted him. She started trusting him very soon after their friendship formed. No one outside that genderbending little clique of weird of hers had known about her drag shows before this past Halloween. She'd trusted him once. She didn't trust him now. If she did then he wouldn't have had to learn about House's latest experiment from goddamned Thirteen.

Maybe she was House's friend now. Maybe he was just the sap in the corner pining after what could have been.

That was a thoroughly depressing thought.

Wilson's office door opened. Wilson didn't look up as Thirteen walked in. She took in the carnage, the depression. This was a man who needed a break. And she knew one thing he'd probably never seen before…

"Busy tonight?" she asked.

Wilson just gave her a glare. He couldn't help but feel she was stealing his friend.

"C'mon, I've got something that'll take your mind off things," she offered. "I can guarantee you've never seen anything like it."

Wilson raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"A hundred bucks says you've never seen anything like this," she said, confident.

This he had to see. "You're on," he said.

Which is how they found themselves outside of a bar called "The Manhole". "You owe me," Wilson said. "I've seen gay bars before."

"It's not the gay bar, it's the inside of the gay bar," Thirteen said.

"Seen that too."

Thirteen was surprised but figured she still had a few aces up her sleeve. The bouncer raked his eyes up and down a distracted Wilson before stamping their hands and letting them inside.

"How about a drag show?" she asked, trying to salvage her bet. The stage was currently occupied, a group of men in tiny latex dresses with feather accents singing the almost obligatory rendition of "We Are Family."

Wilson gave her an unimpressed look then went to the bar.

"Well hello, gorgeous," said the rather muscular bartender. He wore a mesh tank top, thin steel collar, neck tattoos and an interested leer. "The name's Mike. Anything I can get you? Sex on the beach? Screaming orgasm?"

Wilson blushed. He didn't care what Thirteen would think or that Mike's flirting was done for tips, being desired felt good. He licked his lip and gave a flirty little smile to Mike. "Something strong," he said, letting his eyes rove around exposed skin.

Mike growled, a feral sound as he gave Wilson a grin and a wink before pulling out the scotch.

Thirteen watched in fascination as Wilson got his drink and tipped the guy well. "You have been to a gar bay before," she marveled.

"Few times," Wilson admitted. The MC stepped on stage, some tall drag queen with an obscenely short skirt. Wilson thought it looked more like a belt than a skirt. He sipped his scotch as he and Thirteen found a small table. This wasn't a bad place…

"The lady of lounge…"

Wait a minute.

Wilson shook his head. He couldn't have heard that right. The MC didn't just introduce Gillian. Someone else must be calling themselves 'the lady of lounge'. And then he heard her voice…

_I don't know why but I'm feeling so sad  
>I long to try something I never had<br>Never had no kissin'  
>Oh, what I've been missin'<br>Lover man, oh, where can you be?_

Wilson gaped openly at the stage. **No…**

Thirteen turned to look at what he was staring at. The singer looked familiar somehow but that wasn't anything unusual. She came to quite a few drag shows. Sure, this drag queen was different. He was dressed better than the others, feathers and sequins traded in for satin and pearls...

Wait… "Is that House?" she demanded, her voice a hissed whisper.

_The night is cold and I'm so alone  
>I'd give my soul just to call you my own<br>Got a moon above me  
>But no one to love me<br>Lover man, oh, where can you be?_

Wilson's gaping turned into a blinding grin. The experimental drugs must be worth it. Better yet, Thirteen's utter shock betrayed a definite lack of certain knowledge. Wilson felt better already. "You didn't know?" he asked, voice low and smug. "I've known about this for almost twenty years."

Thirteen's shock turned to an uneasy acceptance and then annoyance as she pulled out her purse and a hundred dollar bill. She slapped it on the table for Wilson to retrieve with that smug bastard grin.

_I've heard it said  
>That the thrill of romance<br>Can be like a heavenly dream_

_I go to bed with a prayer  
>That you'll make love to me<br>Strange as it seems_

Wilson gazed at the stage. It was like time had turned back. Under the knee-length red dress, the black elbow-length gloves, the stockings, the bangles, the wig and makeup and corset and pearls the only evidence of the infarction was found in a slight limp and the flats she wore. All those years of pain and anger were stripped away, leaving Gillian House as she could have been. As she should have been.

He loved her like this. And at this moment, when he would swear her eyes met his, when he would swear she was singing to him, for him, he knew.

He knew she loved him back.

_Someday we'll meet and you'll dry all my tears  
>Then whisper sweet little things in my ear<br>Hugging and a-kissing  
>Oh, what I've been missing<br>Lover man, oh, where can you be?_

"I'm right here," Wilson whispered, his voice lost in the cheers and applause. "I guess the drug works," he said louder, just loud enough to be heard over the din.

Thirteen sat shocked, still disbelieving what she was seeing. Maybe they'd planned this, yeah, maybe House somehow knew she'd be bringing Wilson here and was in drag just to fuck with her. Maybe Wilson was just fucking with her, maybe that wasn't even House up there. That made more sense. The Not-House bowed and brought the mic to her lips again.

"I know," House flirted in a fairly good feminized voice. She wasn't fooling anyone, it was too deep. "Why am I lamenting my cold, cold bed with all these luscious Slabs of Man sitting at my feet, riveted at my every word? But I'm a hopeless case. I already have a man, a hopelessly romantic man pining after me."

Wilson perked up, a chill running up his spine. Was she really saying what he thought she was saying?

"He's caring and wonderful in public," House purred. "Once I get him alone…" She laughed, a hungry giggle. "Alone he's irreverent and funny and oh so mine. And yet..."

And yet? Wilson sat riveted on her every word. Thirteen noticed, looked back and forth between the two. Maybe this wasn't a prank.

"I can't have him," House said, pouting. "He doesn't really want me. He wants who he thinks I am. Oh he knows about my…" She looked down at herself, cocked out one hip and ran a hand down her figure. "Talents. I know he can appreciate them too."

Wilson blushed. Several catcalls were heard around the bar. Thirteen's eyebrows shot into her forehead at Wilson's reaction to House's words. It couldn't be…

"I'm just not the woman he fell in love with," House continued. "I never will be. And so I'll watch him again as he finds another woman, as lust burns hot and bitterness cold. And when that happens…" She started to sing.

_I'll go, I'll go, I'll go my way by myself  
>This is the end of romance<br>I'll go my way by myself, love is only a dance_

Suddenly Wilson's reactions became much more interesting to Thirteen than her boss making a fool of himself onstage. Something like shame crossed his features. If House's words were to be taken at face value then she figured shame was the least he could show.

_I'll try to apply myself and teach my heart how to sing  
>I'll go my way by myself like a bird on the wing<br>I'll face the unknown, I'll build a world of my own  
>No one knows better than I myself, I'm by myself alone<em>

Shame gave way to indignance. Wilson wasn't pining after someone she couldn't be, he was waiting until she was done with her transition. Those were two different things. Right?

_I'll go my way by myself, here's how the comedy ends  
>I'll have to deny myself love and laughter and friends<br>Gray clouds in the sky above have put a blotch on my fun  
>I'll try to fly high above for my place in the sun<br>I'll face the unknown, I'll build a world of my own  
>No one knows better than I myself, I'm by myself alone<em>

The song took a turn for the darker, a stab of ice hitting Wilson square in the chest. He would do anything to spare her from a future alone. He only wished she could see that.

_No one knows better than I myself how I wanted love and fell  
>Now I say what the hell all of those black days are gone<br>Cause its solo, all alone, by myself, from now on_

House bowed and the crowd sat silent for a moment before erupting in loud cheers. Depth wasn't the usual tone of a drag show but this depth felt more real than anything scripted. The MC demanded the mic back anyway, trying to lighten the mood to a horny elation before bringing on the next act. House disappeared backstage.

A drag queen in a black sequined top hat, tiny lace gloves, and a black and red dress straight out of the 1950s complained to the MC about House also singing Judy Garland before grabbing the mic and crooning a greeting. Thirteen feared that voice was not going to do the music justice. Wilson was too lost in thought to care except… "Where's House?" he asked.

"I assume he's backstage getting out of that dress," Thirteen commented. She didn't try to keep her voice down, figuring audience chatter could only improve the nasal, whiny voice that was currently singing about life over the rainbow. Annoyed shushes around her tried to get her quiet. She ignored them.

Wilson got up and started trying to get backstage. He found a bouncer in the way, a guy who looked like one of those Slabs of Man that House had mentioned in her act. "I need to see Gillian," Wilson said.

"Patrons aren't allowed in back," the bouncer warned.

"Look, I just need to talk to Dr. House. The one who was just on? I'm her best friend, please?"

The bouncer looked unimpressed. He glanced up then focused on Wilson.

"You're not going to let me past, are you?" Wilson asked. He realized just how little they were going to let him in when the other bouncer's meaty palm gripped his shoulder from behind. It was a mystery how men that broad could move without making a sound. They were as strong as they looked, a fact Wilson recognized as one bouncer picked him up and carried him out the back of the bar.

Wilson sighed. He leaned up against the wall and debated calling a cab. The debate was rendered moot when Thirteen came out of the bar. "I can't believe you tried to get backstage," she said.

Wilson shrugged.

"You really thought they'd let you back there just because House was singing?" she asked.

"They always have," he said.

Thirteen was impressed. "C'mon," she said. "The night is young. I'll buy, you can tell me about it."

Wilson thought for a moment. Jealousy wasn't getting him anywhere. It wasn't going to win House back. It wasn't going to pull House and Thirteen apart. Maybe he didn't need to. House deserved more friends than just him. Maybe this was a good thing. Wilson could learn to live with it. Right?

Maybe if Wilson said it enough he'd start to believe it.

-00000-

Song credits:

"Lover Man" by Billie Holiday

"By Myself" by Judy Garland


	3. Like a Dissection

This chapter is **Optional**. It takes place during 7x22 "After Hours". I agonized over this part for a month, unsure if it should ever see the light of day. If readers could handle it. I realize they probably can't, therefore the rating. But then, ratings never protect anyone.

I am an organic chemist by education. I have taken that education and the plot given to me and attempted to elaborate on House's surgery without lapsing too far into medical terms or gross imagery.

This chapter rated M for themes on gender, self-surgery, etc.

-00000-

House stared blankly at the MRI films. Three shadows marred the chemically induced miracle of regrown muscle. No, not quite a miracle. The drug could never cause what was taken away to magically reappear. Instead the drug added to the remaining muscles until they finally had the strength to bear weight properly without the pain of overwork or the residual agony of muscle death. Cell death left holes in the muscle, holes that never properly filled. Holes now filled with tumor.

Panic rose, bringing with it a friend. Despair lapped at the edges of her mind, taunting her. _Just like the rats… You got caught cheating… Just fold your hand and walk away… You've lost the game… Just like the rats…_

_Just lay down and die…_

House popped a couple of vicodin to numb her mind. She needed to look at this logically, something she couldn't do while her own insecurities were taunting her with poker metaphors. She dropped her head in her hands and waited.

Ten minutes. It took ten minutes for her to lose feeling in her fingertips and her mind to quiet. Insecurities and emotions lay buried under numbness and Nothing leaving pure logic in their wake.

Logic helped. She could look at this logically. She picked up the MRI films again and started thinking.

Surgery, yes. Had to be surgery. There was no other way to remove them. But who could do it? Could she trust anyone to do it? Dread gripped her chest at the thought of a surgeon, any surgeon getting anywhere near her thigh.

That dread scared her. She trusted her team, right? That's why she'd fought hard to keep them once she had them. She broke them in, knew all their inner workings, _trusted_ them. Very few people were graced with her trust. If she dreaded any of her team working on her…

Could she let **anyone** work on her?

Her thoughts turned from Chase and Taub to Wilson then on to nameless, faceless quasi-legal surgeons working out of garages. Every idea brought greater dread to the point of panic. She couldn't trust anyone. Not unless it was a last resort.

But this was a last resort. Wasn't it?

That same sense of panic never materialized when she thought of operating on herself. Cold logic replaced fear, serenity replaced panic. She could do it herself. The bathroom could be sterilized. She could prescribe the antibiotics, the anesthetics, the tumors were close to the surface and away from any major nerves or blood vessels, she had the vicodin to separate herself from it…

And she could be more careful than any surgeon, be they a musculoskeletal specialist or a gray-market street doc. Much more careful.

It would be just like removing a wart.

-00000-

It was most definitely **not** like removing a wart.

"Beginning incision," House mumbled. The empty bathroom didn't answer as she cut into her own thigh. A gentle tugging on the skin was all she felt as the lidocaine did its work. Nothing lapped its gray tendrils at the edge of her vision, numbing her fingertips and silencing her dread. She sliced along the lines of muscle, separating the individual tissues without cutting them, preserving them as much as possible.

It was like a dissection. Like dissecting a cadaver in medical school. The muscles separated at the touch of her scalpel, layers peeled away to show their inner workings.

She took her time, pulling back fibers and flesh to preserve their new-found strength as much as possible. After an eternity the incision was long enough and deep enough that she needed the retractors. She clamped them into the incision, spreading the area so she could see what she was doing.

And her mind voiced its first protest. House tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the task at hand. _Think of it like a dissection, it worked before._ She wiped her forehead of sweat and took a deep breath before peeling back one more muscle.

Damn. She cauterized the small blood vessels before blood filled the incision and marred her progress. Try that again.

There.

All pretense of pretending this was just a dissection failed. She'd found the first tumor, the largest. Her hands shook as she wielded forceps and scalpel to try and cut around the tumor. Dread rose as the Nothing faded and self-doubt reared its ugly head. More lidocaine, need more vicodin, left the vicodin over there…

With self-doubt came all the agony the Nothing had blocked for her. A cry escaped her lips and she pulled at the tumor, sliced at the little tendrils of traitorous flesh desperately holding onto this failed experiment…

And it's gone. She dropped the tumor in its own bowl and tried to center herself, tried desperately to regain that nothing. She wiped away sweat and looked at the scan. _Two more, just two more, one inch down. Right side of the quadriceps tendon. Right next to each other. Not far, not far now…_

She took a deep breath and brought the scalpel in to continue the surgery. She couldn't seem to control her hands. _Need control... Need to...  
><em>

House threw her head back and screamed. Any chance of regaining logic, drive, Nothing collapsed. She tried again, one half-hearted attempt before throwing the scalpel aside and pounding at the wall in agony and frustration.

_Dammit, this was supposed to __**work**__!_

She couldn't do it alone. As much as she hated to admit it, as much as her own insecurities were laughing at her, as much as she couldn't stand trusting **anyone** with this, she could not do it alone.

She had to call someone. She grabbed the cell phone and started punching numbers.

"Fuck it all, Wilson, pick up!" she shouted at the voicemail. She blinked away tears before trying another number.

_Abandoned…_

Chase didn't answer either.

_Forgotten…_

Taub didn't pick up.

_Tossed aside…_

"Shut up!" House screamed. The voice in the back of her head was getting on her nerves. It laughed.

_Alone... Left to die… Die like a __**rat!**_

"I said **SHUT UP**!" She tried one more trusted number. Tears ran down her face as she begged. "Please, Thirteen, pick up."

When the phone went to voicemail she broke, crying like a little girl.

Hours, minutes later she pulled herself back together. Every moment her leg was splayed open like this was another chance for infection. Her thigh throbbed as the local slowly wore off. If she was going to get this done it was going to have to be quick. She looked at her shaking hands and echoed the voice's laughter. She couldn't do this…

She had no one else she could trust. They were all gone. No one was left. No one she trusted, anyway. But she had no choice. She called Cuddy.

And her heart fell back down to her stomach when she heard an answer, any answer. "Someone better be dying," Cuddy grumbled.

"That would be me," House said, voice still full of pain and tears. She sniffed.

"Call Wilson," Cuddy snapped.

House could sense the impending hang-up. "Lisa, please," she shouted. "Please." She didn't hear the dial tone and took that as a good sign. "Please help me," she begged. "I'm at my apartment. I-I thought I could fix this. No one else answered. Don't leave me here…"

Dial tone. She threw the phone across the room and wailed.

-00000-


	4. Caught Cheating

This chapter elaborates on 7x22 "After Hours". You're not missing anything if you skipped the optional chapter.

This chapter is Wilson's POV. His voice has enabled me to explore what seems to be a common issue with transitioning: people who think changing gender means your personality is supposed to change as well. And I'm not forcing this on Wilson, at least I don't feel I am. Wilson would need some sort of defense mechanism, something to convince himself that he hasn't been an utter failure as a friend for 20 years because he never really understood House. Sad that this defense mechanism assures Wilson will never understand her.

This chapter rated T for themes on gender, nightmares, etc.

-00000-

Wilson sat up in bed. Sara leaped to the foot of the bed with an indignant hiss and a 'murr'.

Sleep had been fitful. Nightmares plagued his dreams, different shades of the same event - someone's death. Different views, different methods, different bodies, different genders, but always the sense that these were all shades of a single death. This nagged at Wilson, festered in the back of his mind. He knew very few people who could fit every single detail and still only be one person.

Wilson hauled himself to the edge of his bed. The alarm clock said he had another hour before he had to wake up. Bah, he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep. He cancelled the alarm and checked his phone.

Hmm. House called last night. He pushed down the dread. "Probably needed a ride," he said to Sara. The cat licked her paw daintily and gave him a dirty look for daring to disturb her before breakfast.

Wilson dialed House's number, intending to annoy her awake so she could enjoy her hangover.

"Wilson?" said the voice on the line.

"Cuddy?" Wilson asked. The dread bubbled back up. "What's going on? Where's House?"

"House is just about finished with surgery," Cuddy explained. "He… Wilson, I…"

"What happened?" Wilson asked, a little more forceful.

"He decided to operate on himself," Cuddy said, the words coming out fast and forced. "The drugs he's been taking. There were tumors. He decided to remove them himself. He's insane, Wilson, there's no other explanation. He's gone insane."

Wilson held the phone to his ear, numb. His only thought was on how he doubted Cuddy was really qualified to make statements on House's sanity.

"Wilson?"

"Where is she?"

"Wilson…"

"Where is House?" Wilson demanded.

"Princeton General."

Wilson hung up the phone. He had more important things to do than deal with Cuddy.

-00000-

Princeton General was a chaos both familiar and not. The last time he'd been here had been to pick up a dying girlfriend. That thought made Wilson's blood run cold; not just because this is where Amber languished after the bus accident. The parallels were striking. He already lost one girlfriend here, one female version of House. And now another person he loved, one not-yet-female version of House was languishing here, fate unknown.

If he lost someone else because of this hospital he was going to set this place on fire.

He found House's room. She was still unconscious, not the best of signs so long after coming out of surgery.

"And I hope we can be friends again soon," Rachel said, slowly sounding out the words.

"And I hope we can be friends again soon," Cuddy repeated as she transcribed.

"You bloody scallywag!" Rachel finished, collapsing into squealing giggles.

"You bloody scallywag," Cuddy dutifully transcribed, her dull tones a depressed counterpoint to her daughter's happy laughter.

"You should go home, get some sleep," Wilson said. The caring façade was put up almost on instinct.

"In my dreams," Cuddy groaned. "I'm not going to get the chance. Another night wasted dealing with House and his antics. I thought I was done with this."

Wilson's façade cracked. "House is alive, is that really a waste?"

"I didn't have the luxury of choosing not to answer," Cuddy snapped. _Like you did_ hovered at the end of her sentence.

"And you don't have to live with that choice," Wilson said, low and quiet. All trace of caring boiled away, replaced with an annoyed resignation. "You're not 'done with this', you never will be. Not so long as you're here. Go home."

Cuddy stood up to better glare at the oncologist. "I don't have to put up with him," she said.

"Then leave." Wilson pointed to the door. "You've proven yourself fully capable of it. Leave then, run away because you couldn't handle her again. At least this time be honest with her about why you're leaving."

"Mommy?" Rachel asked.

"Let's go, Sweetie," Cuddy said, reaching for her daughter's hand. Rachel took it and was pulled out the door as Cuddy stormed off.

Wilson collapsed into a chair and stewed. He blamed himself for this. If only he'd been awake. If only he hadn't taken those sleeping pills. If only he hadn't had such a bad week that he needed the sleeping pills. But there was little he could do now. He could only wait and hope he didn't have to take revenge on this place for killing another woman he loved.

Wilson sat there for hours. Long, nerve-wracking hours as Wilson lost himself in his thoughts, kicked himself for his failings, begged her to be okay. The sun rose unnoticed, nurses went unheeded. He waved away their concern, their confusion, their attempts to get him to follow visitor's hours.

His voice caught in his throat when House reached a hand down her leg as if unsure exactly what she'd find.

"You're lucky," Wilson said. And she was; despite the tumors, the abnormal growth, despite Cuddy not giving oversight during surgery regardless of any promise she may or may not have made…

House was going to be okay.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. Accusatory. Disbelieving. Depressed.

"You hoping for someone else?" There were answers to that question that Wilson feared.

"Hot nurse, candy striper," House said. "Someone who doesn't speaking English. Someone who doesn't speak Judgmental."

_I'm not going to judge you for this, _Wilson thought. _I can't. Not after I saw you sing._ He didn't voice those words, instead read Rachel's letter in a careful monotone.

"I have to pee," House said.

"That's a good sign," Wilson said, letting her change the subject. He found and held out a urine bottle.

She threw the blankets off and moved to sit up. "I'm a big boy," she said, self-depreciation edging on the sides of her voice.

"Of course you are," Wilson said, subdued. Even if he were to get judgmental over this whole experimental drug fiasco he couldn't make her feel any worse about it than she already did. Not if she was calling herself male. He reached out to help her up, expected it when she slapped him away. She stood up on shaky legs. Pain arched through her blue eyes, turning them an old familiar gray. When her right leg collapsed under the strain Wilson forced himself to stand back and let her fall to the bed unaided. She'd hate him if he tried to help her without her consent. "You're an ass," he said.

"What, for trying to walk on a freshly mangled leg?" House demanded. "Performing surgery on myself? For thinking I could solve my emotional problems with rat medicine? If you're gonna nag, at least have the decency to be specific." She tried to stand again, an almost imperceptible lift of her arm signaling her acceptance, her request of his help. He draped her arm over his shoulders, brought a hand to her chest to support her.

"Come on," Wilson said wearily. This was entirely the most inappropriate time to notice the soft flesh developing on her chest. Seven months of hormones had gifted her with almost a handful-worth of breasts. There were better places to put his hand, really. He just didn't want to make House sit down again so he could find one. "Listen to me," he said, distracting himself. "You can't keep going like this. Something has to change."

_**You**__ have to change,_ he didn't say. _Just change already. Drop this pretense of trying to be who you were._

"Can I pee first?" House snapped. She glared at him. Her glare softened as Wilson begged her with his eyes, begged her to change. Begged her to be the woman he knew she could be.

"I know," House admitted.

Grunts of pain and effort followed them to the bathroom. House was deposited on the toilet and Wilson stepped back to give her space but couldn't bring himself to leave. He almost lost her, he didn't want to leave her alone.

"I asked Cuddy to observe my surgery," House said. "Make sure the surgeon didn't just decide to hack things off. She didn't."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," Wilson said.

House looked up from staring into space, looked up to stare at Wilson. He couldn't read her expression. And then she stared into space again.

Wilson took a deep breath. He didn't know why he was bringing this up… "When Cuddy left…" He trailed off.

"She left because I couldn't change," House said.

"She left because things got weird."

House turned her eyes to Wilson again. Her expression was carefully neutral. Only years of knowing her allowed him to see the fury, the resignation, the complete lack of surprise. "I know," she said, quiet. A flush and she signaled for his help. This time Wilson made it a point to wrap his arm around her waist. Now wasn't the time for groping her breasts regardless of how nice they might be.

"I couldn't change for her," she said once back in the bed. "What makes you think I can change now?"

Wilson couldn't answer that.

-00000-


	5. Queen of Diamonds

On the surface the whole untested-drugs arc seemed completely bat-shit. No sane individual would pull something like this, right? The risks, the unknowns, the possibility of getting caught, they all outweigh the benefits, right? Doesn't it?

No. No it doesn't. And the tragedy of it is so few understand this. Or maybe it's a blessing that so few people are in enough pain to understand.

This chapter bookends the events in 7x23 "Moving On". There's an insanity herein. Or maybe Gillian's right, maybe this is the only sane course of events.

This chapter is rated T for themes on gender, delusional poker, etc.

-00000-

A knock on the hospital room door drew House out of a drug-aided doze. Wilson stayed at his self-appointed station, asleep in the chair next to her bed. The hospital room was private; they kept her away from the other patients so she wouldn't disturb them. She glanced around, looking for something to throw at Wilson.

The door knocked again. Probably some nurse making the three-times-daily attempt to get Wilson to go home or at least take a shower. House twisted the sheet into a rat-tail and whipped it at Wilson. The muted 'thwack' was oddly satisfying.

"Wazzat," Wilson mumbled.

"Get the door," House commanded.

Wilson grumbled about rules and regulations while trying to straighten his shirt. Two days of wearing the same clothes had wrinkled them and dulled the white shirt to off-white in some places. His grumbling went quiet when he opened the door and stared at their visitor.

"Tell the nurse I hate Jell-o," House called, trying to seek amusement by being difficult. Any chance of levity drained away when she heard that nerve-gratingly kind voice ask to come in. Damn it all, she hadn't seen him since her suicide watch for a **reason.**

"Dr. Nolan," Wilson said in surprise. "How did you know?"

"Word gets around," Nolan said. "Would you mind if I spoke to Gillian for a while? Alone?"

Wilson looked back and forth between the two. House could see the fear in his eyes. She realized he was afraid for her yet she couldn't bring herself to care. If he was so damned afraid for her he should have answered her call instead of trying to atone by standing an increasingly stinky vigil after the fact.

"Go take a shower, James," Nolan suggested, the caring in his voice matching Wilson's on a good day. "Take a shower, get some fresh clothes, maybe some real food. You'll feel better."

Wilson's distress visibly grew before he slumped in defeat. "Call me if…"

"Of course," Nolan said. "We'll be done in a few hours most likely. Come back then."

Wilson nodded and trudged out.

"So you hate Jell-o," Nolan said conversationally. He closed the door behind him.

"Of course not," House snapped. She pulled out Wilson's phone and started fiddling with it. "There's always room for Jell-o." She got to his ringtone settings and started setting strategic songs to specific individuals.

"I haven't seen you in a couple of months, Gillian," Nolan said, taking Wilson's vacated chair. "Why is it whenever you stop coming to see me your life tends to upheave?"

"You're a rock in a storm," House said, deadpanned. She left most of the oncology ringtones untouched, the best to drag out the prank. Cuddy's personal number got some song called "She Fucking Hates Me," her work number the _Jaws_ theme. "I'm as likely to bash into you as I am to find shelter."

"That's… oddly poetic," Nolan marveled.

"Yeah, well, I just had a chunk taken out of me again. I can get maudlin or I can seek the Nothing."

"And so you decided to cope in a manner other than dissociating?"

She shrugged. She set the idiot older brother's personal number to "American Idiot". It didn't quite make up for all the times she wanted to punch him. "I'm trying to change. Or I was."

"What made you decide to stop?"

House looked at Nolan, face carefully deadpanned. She stared at the bandage on her leg, used her eyes to drag his gaze to it.

"What happened?" he asked.

She couldn't find the song she wanted in Wilson's phone and she doubted the mp3 service would have it. Bah, there were others. "I tried to fix myself."

"I can see that."

"Shut up."

Nolan ignored her. "I heard something about an untested drug," he prodded. "Why?"

House turned away, put down Wilson's phone. "You're going to think I'm crazy," she said, barely above a whisper. "I admit it looks like a crazy thing to do. But it wasn't crazy. What I did was the only sane course of action.

"I've never been a whole person. Before the infarction I was trapped in a male body and didn't even know it. I compensated with drag shows, anonymous sex, the occasional drug binge, but that's not how you become a complete person. That's just how you get by.

"I'm not a whole person now, either. The difference is what's missing now. It's not just a chunk of leg muscle; it's my independence, my reliance on that damned cane, it's the crippling pain, it's knowing I no longer have control over my own body. Not even the drugs were enough to compensate anymore. There's a hole where a part of me used to be and every waking moment I am reminded of that fact. This is more than identity, Nolan. This is knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that I have never been a whole person in my life and I will never have that chance.

"And then I found out about this drug. I don't care what you heard, it wasn't untested. It was in end-stage animal testing. At that point there had been no animal deaths, no bad reactions, no adverse effects and absolutely beautiful results. It looked ready for stage 1 human trials. But I can't wait the fifteen years for it to reach the market, if it ever did. I doubt I'll even be alive in fifteen years.

"So I insinuated myself into that lab. I stole doses of the drug and injected myself with it because in the end it was the only sane thing to do. I can't live as only part of a person; I think I've proven that well enough. I don't want to die, either. I can't keep living like this, compensating until it kills me. So I did the safest thing, the sanest thing I could think of."

"And that was to steal a drug that wasn't even finished with animal testing?" Nolan asked.

"Manufacture stops once the testing is over," House explained. "And what if the drug had some relatively harmless side effect that rendered it too risky for commercial use? It would never be synthesized again. I'm not an idiot, I knew there were risks. I knew I was taking a chance. I knew this might even kill me. But I had to. Chances were good I would come out of this with negligible side effects just like every other rat in the study group."

"But you didn't."

"Why are the results the most important thing?" House demanded. "In every study but that last one the rats were fine. They're still fine! The morons cooking up their chemicals probably made a bad batch and now I'm paying for their idiocy. I know there's no way to really replace what I lost. I know at best this was just a patch to cover the hole in my leg. Strengthen the musculature around the debridement so it could support my weight and movements without collapsing under the strain. But it was my only option. I wanted to feel whole for once in my life. This was the only sane option and you know it."

House glared at Nolan, daring him to say anything contrary to her rant. She slumped back on the hospital bed and pouted, arms crossed.

"Why don't you feel like a whole person?" Nolan asked.

She glared at him like he was nuts. Did he not hear a single word she just said? She grabbed at her thigh and squeezed it, embracing the agony that arched up her body.

"But it's just a leg. It's an extremity, a limb, nothing more. There are whole people without limbs."

"It's not the leg," she said, trying to make him understand. "It's being able to sleep at night without drugging the pain away. It's being able to walk into a room without being stared at. It's not having to shove everyone away by being a total ass in an attempt to keep them from heaping all their damned **pity** on me."

"You hate pity," Nolan said. It wasn't a question.

"Of course I hate pity," she snapped. "Pity makes you feel less human, less… alive."

"Gillian, you know that people are responsible for their own reactions," Nolan said. "What they feel is a reflection of themselves, nothing more. It has nothing to do with you. Their pity shouldn't affect you."

"Bullshit. It's called 'empathy'. Humans have it. Just because I don't advertise that I use it doesn't mean it's not there."

"So let me get this straight. Everything you did, stealing the drugs, dosing yourself, attempting to operate on yourself, all this was to avoid knowing that people pity you. I must say, Gillian, that façade you put up of not caring what people think, it's a pretty good mask."

"You have said we all wear masks," House said, both depressed and furious. Of course he couldn't understand. He wasn't in constant pain. He didn't know what it was like. No one else did.

"Did it work?"

She gave him an annoyed look.

"Did the drugs work?" Nolan clarified.

House nodded. "I didn't need the cane," she said. Sometimes memory was a cruel device. "I wasn't in pain. I could _dance_ again, Nolan. I found a place and took over their stage and I could sing until I got kicked off stage. I had my life back. It was like the ketamine experiment, no, better than that because this time I was finally myself. The drugs did everything they promised and more."

"Except for the tumors," Nolan pointed out.

"I don't willingly trust anyone to do surgery on me anymore," House admitted. "Not since Cuddy took me apart. I had to try to get them myself. I had to, Nolan. What if some surgeon decided it was a good idea to just give up and take the whole leg? I'd have to live with the possibility that I might have been able to do better. And it's not like I'm some idiot who doesn't know the difference between a tendon and a muscle. I have the training. I have the ability. I just… didn't have the nerve to finish it on my own." Shame clouded her features. "I wish I did. I couldn't even trust Cuddy to watch the damned surgeon for me. I asked her and she wouldn't."

"Why Cuddy?" Nolan asked. "Why not someone who hasn't hurt you? Someone you trust?"

House drew her knees up the bed, ignoring the pain lancing through her thigh at the movement. She wrapped her arms around her knees and avoided looking at him.

"You could have trusted me," Nolan whispered. "You know that, Gillian."

"No one else answered," she said. "I wanted someone to finish the surgery without dragging me to a hospital. An anonymous surgeon doesn't care, he's just there to get paid. And you're not a real doctor, you're a shrink."

"I take it she couldn't finish the surgery for you."

"She wouldn't even try."

Nolan reached out to grasp her hand. "I'm sorry, Gillian," he said.

She squeezed him back.

-00000-

The move to Princeton-Plainsborough was a conspiracy, had to be. Wilson was in on this as punishment for stealing his phone. Cuddy just wanted to gloat over whatever proof she'd found that House was unfit to exist as an adult, much less as a doctor. Nolan was in on this just because. An of course there was her team or whomever ratted her out to her therapist.

There was no other explanation as to why she was confined to bed in a hospital of nurses just waiting for their chance to make her life as miserable as she made theirs.

At least now Wilson wasn't spending his entire day at her bedside. She finally had some damned privacy.

Boredom set in. She found her hands idle and decided to let them wander for old time's sake. She slipped her hands under the sheets and up her hospital gown to get in some quality masturbation. Her eyes fell closed as one hand reached up to play with her own breasts.

She'd just gotten going when the door opened. Knowing it was probably Wilson she didn't stop. The idea of teasing him, of making him watch and be unable to do anything about it made it all the sweeter.

"Um, Dr. House?" asked a distinctly female voice.

House's eyes snapped open. Ah yes, the intern. "Masters," she said, as though she hadn't been caught wanking. She didn't even move her hands from their rather telling places.

"I haven't seen you in a few weeks," Masters said, shifting from foot to foot. Her discomfort was obvious. "You haven't been to group."

"Been busy," House said. Conversation was killing the mood so she pulled her hands away from their teasing.

"I heard about the experimental drugs," Masters blurted.

House stared, face carefully neutral. She kept the neutrality as Masters grew more and more uncomfortable. All House had to do was blink once, slowly and deliberately, and the whole story came out in a torrent.

"You didn't show up to game for a few weeks and I was worried so I talked to your team and Foreman didn't even seem to care but Chase was worried and Taub was distracted but Thirteen knew and she told me and I told the group leader and she must have told your therapist and I'm so sorry but we're all so worried about you. We just want you to be okay." Masters blushed red and handed House an envelope before fleeing.

House held the envelope, stared at it but didn't see it. They weren't really worried about her. No one worried about her. No one cared.

Right?

Except even now Masters didn't know how to lie. She didn't even know how to keep secrets when put under the stress of being stared at. She opened the envelope to pull out a 'get well soon' card. It was signed by all the group therapy members, even the ones she didn't like.

Maybe they did care.

-00000-

Maybe they did care. It didn't mean anything. In the end all that mattered was the hand and how you played it.

A pair of deuces and some junk. That was her hand. That had been her hand for months, ever since she lost the queen of diamonds and drew the damned joker. Ever since Cuddy left.

And now she stood outside of Cuddy's house holding a hairbrush and all she saw was the poker table. The pot towered high, shadows and smoke obscured the faces of all her opponents but one. Cuddy sat next to her, her cards haphazardly fanned open enough for House to get a glimpse her hand.

The perfect happy family. The queen of diamonds had her little ace of diamonds for a daughter and she'd just found her new king of diamonds. The jack and ten of diamonds were there, too, the sister and the mother in one big happy family, one big royal flush.

Of course Cuddy had to discard House, she was the damned two of clubs, the lowest card in the deck. And now she'd drawn again and gotten the king of diamonds. Her hand was perfect.

House had lost the hand and the pot. She'd lost the game. She'd gone all-in, pulled her last ace out of her sleeve, been caught cheating, and to add insult to injury Cuddy had the royal flush.

She stormed back to the car and got behind the wheel. Why was Wilson still here? Her hand had failed her for the last time. "Get out," she snapped.

"What just happened?" he asked.

"Get. Out."

"House, what are you mad about?" Wilson asked, getting out of the car. "Just let it out, you'll feel better."

She reached over and yanked the passenger door shut. She peeled off, just long enough to realize…

How do you win a hand without winning? How do you lose without losing? The loss of this hand was the loss of all her last chances, the loss of her **life**. And Cuddy was just going to take it all with a smile of pity the way she always had.

Sure Cuddy had won. And House was going to give her that win. Oh, she was going to give that win. She slammed her foot on the accelerator.

She didn't even see Wilson, not anymore. She didn't see the house, the pretty little garden, or even the man laughing and flirting with Cuddy. Instead she saw that smoky poker table. She saw the cigar held between her teeth, smoke puffing as she took a few deep breaths. She saw cards and chips and faceless, nameless players all around her. Just players sitting at the table of life, their own bets in the pot, their own stacks much bigger than hers. The dealer had no idea.

Chips scattered and cards flew as Gillian House stood up from the poker game of life and flipped the table. People scattered and stared. Stacks collapsed like fallen bricks. Drinks spilled and glass shattered. And though it all House stood as calm as could be.

Cuddy was furious. Of course she was, House had just ruined her hand. That royal flush was worthless now that the cards were scattered all over the dust and rubble of a ruined living room and a totaled car. House got out of the car and pulled out a chip, a hairbrush, Cuddy's winnings.

The dealer was coming out of shock. Security would be on its way soon enough to make her pay for what she'd done. It was time to take leave of this casino. She could find a new one, a new game with a new deck and a new hand.

She walked off, out of the casino. Away from the scene of the crash. She called a cab and went home.

Casino security would be after her. The cops did not take kindly to vehicular assault. She wasn't sure which world she was in at the moment, whether the card game was real or metaphor. She brushed mortar dust off of her clothes and pulled an errant card out of her jacket. She reached up to pull her cigar from her lips to find nothing there but the taste of strong tobacco. The bustle of the city shifted and blurred, cars weaving around slot machines and street lights flashing neon.

She had to get out of here.

She paid the cabbie, a strange fare of chips and bills. She waved off Dominika's questioning, grabbed the bag she kept for emergencies, and pulled her motorcycle out of the complex's garage.

In the end it didn't matter what was real and what was metaphor. Open road is open road.


	6. On The Run

This chapter follows 7x23 "Moving On". Now I go AU, bitches!

If House's hand is the pair of deuces then she's forgotten something important. You can't have a pair without two cards. I can't forget that either. This story bounces between Third Person (House) and Third Person (Wilson).

This chapter rated T for themes on gender, a suicide attempt, etc.

-00000-

Sunlight glinted off the crest of every wave. Nearly naked sunbathers lay spread out on the endless white sand. Surfers caught the largest waves, gliding in to shore on wings of water before tumbling out of their flight somewhere between land and sea.

At the beach-side hotel bar, House sat watching the sunlight glint off of the bourbon in her glass. She downed the last swallow. Someone on the beach started setting up for a bonfire.

"You want another one?" the bartender asked.

"No, I think I've had enough," House said, passing the glass back to him. "What do you think I should do today?"

"I don't know, go home?"

"Not tonight," she said. "Cheers." She tipped him and limped off down the beach. The sun glinted off the water into dull blue eyes, pricked at numb sunburned skin. Wind pulled at curly hair and week-old clothes. The sounds of revelry and seabirds faded around her as she retreated from the beach paradise into herself.

She pulled a pill bottle out of a pocket and just held it. Three months. She'd brought along a three month supply of vicodin. Wilson was right; she was taking way too much. One week and almost a month's worth was gone. She rubbed her thumb over the name on the bottle, the last reminder of the table she'd left, the hand she'd folded, the life she threw away.

A thousand miles south and she hadn't gone far enough. She stared into the sea as the sun set into the Caribbean.

The next thing she was aware of was the tide. Waves lapped at her feet and her cane was getting progressively shorter. She put the bottle away and pulled her cane out of the wet sand with a 'shlupp'. Night was falling. The bonfire shone like a star on the sand, farther away then she'd imagined. Too far. Not far enough.

It was never far enough.

-00000-

That man was staring at her again. It wasn't his fault, she was the one who kept looking in the mirror. And every time she did that man stared back, disappointment etched in his features. He looked ten years older than her, gaunt with dark bags under his eyes. Long, stringy gray hair. A face covered in stubble. Haunted blue eyes spoke of terrible things done and witnessed.

There was a knock on her hotel room door. She found tonight's entertainment, a leggy blonde maybe half her age. She wasn't up to anything tonight but gestured the girl in anyway.

"Hi, my name's Candy," she said, licking her lips and slinking with a seduction that didn't reach her eyes.

"Drop the act for tonight," House said. "What's your real name?"

"Roberta," she said, suddenly unsure.

House gestured Roberta to come inside. House limped to the bed and sat down next to a beat-up guitar, a cheap new acquisition she planned on leaving here when she moved on.

"So, um," Roberta said. Nervousness and confusion followed her every move.

"Sit down and listen," House said. "That's all I need tonight."

She hadn't gone nearly far enough. She was still bingeing on booze and whores in the same casino. She had to get farther away or she'd just end up dragging herself back to the same table to try and pick up her cards and play the same hand against the same players. That's why that man still stared at her from the mirror. She hadn't changed. She hadn't tried to. She hadn't even left the casino.

That ended now. Roberta waited as House wrote something and stuffed it in an envelope. She handed it to the girl and sent her off with her pay. Once alone House started to pack. West. This time she'd head west.

There were things out west that could help her change.

-00000-

"I'm pressing charges and that's final!" Cuddy snapped.

Wilson stood in her office, ignoring the irony. Cuddy was uninjured while his arm was in cast and sling from what House did to both of them. Yet here he was, trying to protect House from her own consequences.

"And I'm posting an opening for new department head," she said dismissively. "Diagnostics."

"You can't!" Wilson protested. "What about House? That's her department and you know it."

"I don't give a rat's ass if it is **his** department," she said, emphasizing her view of House's gender. "Also, do not call that bastard a woman in front of me. That man is not a tranny, he's _insane_. And what he did to my home just proves it! Now get out of my office. Out!"

Wilson slammed the door behind him, cracking one of the glass panes. He stormed to his office, the urge to destroy something rising. It all came crashing down at the sight of the sealed envelope on his desk, familiar scrawl addressing it to him, postmark from somewhere in Florida. He sat down and tore open the letter.

_Wilson,_

_By the time this reaches you I'll be long gone. I've gone south until I hit the water and it still isn't far enough. I'll go west this time. _

_I'm not coming back. I can't come back and not because of the thing with Cuddy. Princeton was a dead end anyway, nothing there but being the good little boy everyone wanted. Everyone but you. You were the only person willing to see me as me, even before I found out. I wish I could've taken you with me._

_I can't tell you where I am. I don't know where I'll be by the time you get this. I just know I can't stay here. _

_I love you, James. I wish I'd known sooner. About everything._

_G. House_

Wilson sat at his desk, eyes scanning the page over and over. A scream shook him out of his funk, the sound of shattering glass followed. It took a moment for him to realize the scream was his own, the shatter was his stapler thrown at his _Vertigo_ poster. He collapsed back into his chair and cradled his head in his hands. _Why did she leave?_ he thought.

_Why did you leave?_

-00000-

The sky was dark and angry as the storm raged offshore. Waves pounded the sand, prelude to the torrent that was coming, fierce and unstoppable.

A lone figure stood on the beach, an empty pill bottle in one hand. A one-piece bathing suit and a sarong were all that protected her from the elements, mist soaking through it all. With each crash the waves reached closer and closer, eager to take this willing sacrifice into the storm and rip her apart. The wind grasped cold fingers at her shoulder-length hair and tore at her sarong, threatening to rip it away to be consumed by the storm, to reveal a tell-tale crotch-bulge and the angry scars marring her right thigh.

Marathon electrolysis, gray-market meds, false papers, nothing was enough to find Gillian House that new casino. Instead the old one seemed to encompass the whole world. And now here she stood, broken and nearly broke with nowhere to go and nowhere to return to.

Someone else joined her on the beach. "Senora, you must come inside!" the man shouted. She could barely hear him over the wind. "The storm, she is coming!"

"Five more minutes, Manuel," House shouted.

The man ran back inside as the rain started to fall. She looked out at the storm. The water was rising faster now; the storm surge was coming ashore. Out there somewhere was the eye. In a few hours that eye was supposed to pass overhead.

She wouldn't live to see it.

She ran her thumb over the fading name on the empty bottle. This was the last bottle she had, the only thing she had left to remind her. The 'James' was almost gone, rubbed away by her own musings. And now the rain was dissolving the paper it was printed on, washing the name away once and for all.

There was nothing left for her, not anymore. Not if she wanted to avoid returning to that table to face casino security. There would be prison time for her transgressions, not just driving her car through Cuddy's window but also for running away. She couldn't do that, not alone. And she was alone.

"Senora!"

"What, Manuel?" House demanded.

"I am not going inside without you!"

_Then you will die_, House almost said. She looked out at the waves, crashing only a few scant feet away. Two steps and she would be able to let go. Two steps and she really would be alone. Alone with the Nothing. Forever.

Warm hands wrapped around her shoulders. "Please, Senora," Manuel said. "Don't do this."

"I'm alone, Manuel. I've done terrible things."

"You have done wonderful things, Senora. You have been good doctor to my family for two months. You saved my wife and son."

"I delivered a baby," House snapped. And that's all it had been, delivering a baby. Yes, labor had been difficult on the mother and she would have died without help and the hospital was too far…

"You delivered my son, Senora. You saved my wife." Manuel tugged at her, drawing attention to the water at their feet. "Please, Senora. You are not alone."

Water washed over her bare toes, softening the almost rock-hard sand beneath her feet. She **had** done terrible things. She'd killed Amber, maimed Cuddy's future, belittled and insulted everyone around her. She'd pushed them all away so hard that they all came back. That was the key, wasn't it? That they all came back.

She'd saved lives, countless patients. She'd begun lives, even the son Manuel named for her. She'd offered relief from pain and misery to patients and colleagues.

The waves tugged at her legs, the wind howled, and the storm drove stinging rain in an attempt to claim its prize. House turned away from the fury and let Manuel bring her inside. Away from the hurricane.

The rain pounded impotently against the walls of the hotel. House listened to its song. The wind sang a different tune now that there were walls between her and the storm. It took a singularly strong fury to destroy that which a lifetime could construct. House had become that fury, spinning through her own life like a tornado. Perhaps she had succeeded at tearing her life down to the foundations. But somehow she didn't think so.

Building a new life was hard. It was more difficult than she could have ever imagined. The least she could do was see if her old life still stood.

Maybe there was hope.

-00000-

Another boring meeting of department heads. Wilson trudged down to the conference room where he suspected Cuddy was going to announce who she'd finally chosen as new head of Diagnostics. Smart money was on either Chase or Foreman.

Wilson scoffed. Foreman was an unimaginative hard-ass who would run the department into the ground with his lack of foresight. Chase was too chronically distracted to be head of anything, much less a department, but at least he was mentally flexible. Either way, unless by some miracle House was back this meeting likely marked the beginning of the end for Diagnostics as a department in this hospital.

He sat down in his chair. He couldn't even bring up the energy to hope.

The other heads filed in and Cuddy called the meeting to order.

"**DUDE looks like a laaaay-DY!"**

The room jumped at the overly loud noise coming out of Wilson's phone as he grabbed it and ran from the room.

"House!" he shouted. "Where the hell are you? Tell me you're okay! Please don't hang up, please be okay, just tell me where you are!"

"I turned myself in," House said.

Wilson collapsed against a convenient wall and slid to the floor. "You're okay," he said, the weight of the situation burying him until his voice sound like awe.

"I'm okay, Wilson, I promise," House said. "Know any good lawyers? Stacy isn't returning my calls."

"I'll find you one, I swear it," Wilson said. "Just, talk to me. I need to hear your voice. Where have you been?"

"Around. Florida sucks. Got my beard removed in Texas. Went to Mexico and played village doctor for a few months. I ended up staying rent-free in this guy's hotel after I delivered his son. Difficult birth, I was surprised when the mother survived. We had a hurricane; that was fun. Don't you have little bald-headed kiddies to be taking care of?"

"I was in a board meeting," Wilson admitted. "You remember when you stole my phone and changed all the ringtones?"

"I've done that a few times. Which one?"

"After your surgery."

"Oh yeah, that one," House said.

"You remember the one you set for yourself? I never changed it back."

House's laughter was the best sound in the world. As long as she could laugh like that Wilson knew everything was going to be okay.

He just didn't know how.

-00000-

A few notes.

The ringtone is "Dude Looks Like a Lady" by Aerosmith.

Manuel and House are speaking Spanish. I'm not good enough with Spanish to try and translate so just pretend.

The hurricane was a real thing. Her name was Arlene, she was a tropical storm early this season, and she made landfall in Veracruz, Mexico. This fact was rendered unimportant upon rewrite but it gives a fairly exact location as to House's whereabouts.

I have one more story along this particular character interpretation. I need to wrap up a few of the loose ends that canon saddled me with, such as why House is only supposed to serve a year in what could very easily be a 15-20 year sentence (aggravated vehicular assault, at least one assault with a deadly weapon charge, and fleeing the scene of a crime are the felonies I count off the top of my head).


End file.
